


growing up

by strider1989



Category: Homestuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 16:28:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4794371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strider1989/pseuds/strider1989
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not the nightmares that bother you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	growing up

**Author's Note:**

> i cant believe its 2015 and im writing homestuck fanfiction

You wake up shivering, with the covers pulled around you even though it’s probably at least ninety degrees outside. You had a nightmare. Of that much, you can be sure. Its contents, however, are lost to you as soon as you open your eyes. You’ve had a hard time of remembering your dreams, lately, which you guess probably isn’t a bad thing.

After tossing and turning for a couple minutes, it becomes pretty clear that you aren’t gonna get back to sleep anytime soon. That’s when you give in and look over at the clock. It’s like 4 am, way too early to be up, but since you’re not about to fall back asleep there’s nothing for you to do but waste time until you’re tired again.

You’ve got a bad taste and a dry feeling in your mouth, like someone put sand in your mouth while you were sleeping, or something (which, considering other things that have ended up in your mouth while you were sleeping, wouldn't be too unusual). You could go for some water.

You tiptoe your way out to the kitchen, carefully avoiding the creaky spots in the floor. No shades, no real clothes, just your boxers and a tank top, which are a little too warm for the weather but are just enough to not be indecent. There’s never really a safe time to be caught with your pants down in this household.

Bro’s probably awake, you can tell, like your fucking Strider-sense is tingling or something as you grab what looks like a clean glass from one of the cabinets (and quickly shut it before the jostled fireworks can fall out). You know from experience that he’ll wake up at the drop of a hat. It’s impossible to get the drop on him, even if he’s not even conscious, because the second he hears the smallest sound or feels the tiniest change in atmosphere around him, he’s wide awake.

You turn on the tap to fill up your glass–not bothering to pull out the tangle of puppets stuck in the sink–and glance behind you. He’s on the futon. Still looks like he’s asleep, or he hasn’t moved at least. You take a sip of water, swallowing hard.

“Bro?” you say, quietly.

There’s no response. You put your glass down on the kitchen counter.

Maybe you’re still dreaming, because when you walk slowly around to the futon, he doesn’t stop you or ask you what the hell you’re doing. In fact–his eyes are closed, and he doesn’t have his shades on, either, there’s a rare sight.

You can’t remember the last time you’ve seen his eyes. That thought makes you feel a little sick, somehow.

You find yourself watching his chest–it’s a horrible, tense couple of seconds before you notice it rising and falling, assuring you that he is still breathing–and you can’t help but pay attention to the way he’s sort of curled up, his feet just barely hanging off the end of the futon. You feel a sudden pang of guilt. You should be the one sleeping on the fucking couch, not him. He’s not exactly a little guy, it would be too small for him even if he did bother to put it down, which he hardly ever does.

He’s got one arm under his pillow, but the other is just laying limply at his side, and you can’t help but think that there’s enough of a space right next to him for you to fit perfectly. You’re small enough that maybe you could just-

You don’t get any further than that thought before his eyes open, looking straight at you, and you stifle a gasp.

“You’re getting a little too old for me to protect you from nightmares, lil bro,” he says softly. He sounds exhausted. That makes you feel like you're at fault, too, though you’re not sure why.

You don't know how to respond to that. You manage to get out a quiet "sorry" after a few seconds, but it doesn't feel like the right thing to say. His expression is unreadable, per usual, and you feel practically naked standing there without your shades or even a binder.

But you can see his eyes, too.

You don't know what to say so you stay there like that, silently, wondering if he's expecting you to leave, until he shifts over against the back of the futon and mumbles, "c'mere," gesturing vaguely with his free hand.

Your heart is in your throat. 

There's not a lot of room, even for just one person, but there's enough for you to climb into that delicate space next to him, enough for him to wrap his arm around you and keep you from falling off the edge. You don't know what you should be feeling, with your back pressed against his chest, but all you can find is an overwhelming sense of guilt.

When you hear him murmur, "hey, shh, it's okay," you realize you've been trembling. "Shh, get some sleep."

It's not the nightmares that bother you, you think as you drift off. It's not the way your voice is changing or how your body is growing in all the ways you don't want it to. That's not the worst part of it.

When you wake up, sunlight is filtering in through the windows, and you're alone.

This is the part that gets to you.


End file.
